Thursday, March 12, 2015

SUV:1 Hubby:0

        Let me start this off by saying, first of all, that Hubby is fine. However, last night I was greeted at the door by several wide-eyed children, gesturing silently, but furiously, at their father. Apparently, they had not quite recovered from the sight of him being escorted out of a squad car, because he had been struck by a SUV while riding his bike after work and needed assistance to get home. 

He, despite being battered and unable to bear any sort of weight on his wrist, is adamant that he is a-okay. He didn't even take today off work. Idiot. I'd be off for a week,   reclining dramatically on the couch, you know, next to the front window where the light is most flattering. "No, no.... don't worry about me," I'd be saying, before requesting that, if it wasn't too much trouble, could someone pretty please bring home some chocolate peanut butter ice cream and also, be a dear and fetch me a blanket before you go. And this month's issue of Vogue, please and thank you. 

Actually, that's a lie, since I never would have been hit at all. This whole episode underscores how differently Hubby and I maneuver through the world. Hubby was 100% in the right with this accident. He was hit where our local bike boulevard crosses a busy street. He was in the crosswalk, you know, the one with the overhead flashing lights and a sign that says "State Law: Yield to Pedestrians and Cyclists." Needless to say, the  driver did not. Yield, that is. Hubby was stuck hard enough to make me rethink my devil-may-care, no helmet wearing ways. (I KNOW, okay? But I'm nerdy enough on my own, thank you, and many days this hair is all I have going for me.) But herein lies the difference: Hubby is not angry he was hit, exactly, but he is FURIOUS that his right-of-way was not respected. I would never have entered the crosswalk in the first place. Not if there was a car within half a mile of the thing. Assume that the car will stop for a bike? Of it's own volition? No, WAY, buddy. I'm not putting one pedal in that crosswalk. Not if I had the right-of-way and was pulling a cart of air raid sirens and floodlights. 

This is super typical of us. Hubby moves through the world in an unencumbered manner. He pretty much assumes things are going to unfold as they should, which allows him a cheerful confidence about the whole thing. He is absolutely flabbergasted if they do not. I, on the other hand, am much more vigilant about the whole thing. It's not that I think things WILL go wrong, I just know that they might. Like, we're both enjoying the movie, but one of us has made damn sure she knows where the emergency exits are. It requires a certain amount of energy, yes, and perhaps speaks to a lack of trust in the Universe in general, but then again, only one of us got hit by a car. So there's that. 

Luckily, this isn’t the kind of difference that causes any sort of rift between us. I tend not to notice it, except for those times when I have to ask him to please stop trying to murder our children each time we cross the major street a few blocks over. (Again with the right-of-way! Cars do not necessarily stop for pedestrians! Not even though it’s, technically, the law. Please cease filling the children’s heads with such nonsense!) On the contrary, I suspect that we are good for each other. Sometimes, I just need a break from formulating contingency plans and “what ifs.” At those times, it’s nice to decide to relax a bit and trust that, well, if Hubby isn’t worried about it, neither am I.  For my part, I like to think that I’ve saved his life on several occasions. My staunch refusal to budge from the curb when within eyeshot of a motor vehicle may annoy the crap out of the man, but he’s never been run down on my watch!

In the end, I’m so dang happy to be able to write that the only casualty last night was his bike. He’ll be back riding to work as soon as we get a replacement and his wrist heals. Please watch out for him while you're driving. He does have the right-of-way, you know.

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Don't Argue with the Fortune Cookie.

I'm suffering a complete crisis of confidence today. I'm wrestling with the type of writer's block that doesn't just make writing difficult, it makes you question the justification for your very existence. An hour and a half in and I was pretty much beating my head on the table because nothing I wrote was any good. (Bam!) In fact, nothing I have ever written has been any good. (Bam!) I have absolutely nothing interesting or important to say, and NEVER HAVE!! (Bam! BAM!)

I do not know how other folks deal with these feelings. I tried a tactic that has worked for me in the past; Chinese food and diet coke. Indulgent and, at the very least, I thought I could count on the MSG/artificial sweetener double whammy to calm me down, hopefully to the point of requiring a nap. But, nope. Sometimes the anxiety is just too much to overcome. At least the caffeine allowed me to focus....

...Focus on my stupid husband who's clearly to blame for my current, emotional distress. God! If it weren't for him and his constant, stupid encouragement I wouldn't even be attempting to write a book! He's all, "You're so great, you need to do this." and "I think you shouldn't work too much, because it's much more important that you have the time to write." It is a fucking NIGHTMARE, I tell you what!

Also, he has this crazy idea that since I am unsuited for most work (Seriously, he's right. I've been known to throw a temper tantrum just upon hearing the words "team building exercise." It's kind of limited my career options.) he believes that writing, at home, alone, in my pajamas is basically the only way I will cheerfully embrace the work week. An interesting hypothesis, but let me ask you; DO I SOUND IN ANY WAY CHEERFUL, AT THIS MOMENT?

You know what would make me cheerful? Giving up the whole idea and dancing around the house to Matt and Kim while eating the entire hunk of leftover chocolate cake from the kitchen. Sounds like heaven, in fact. What is the plan here, anyways? Write the stupid thing and put it out there, where only one of two outcomes is possible;

1) people read it which would be horrible, as everyone could see the utter folly of my writing, or;

2) nobody reads it. Also horrible.

Then, just as I worked myself up to a fever pitch and was ready to hit "delete" and make a break for freedom, I cracked open my fortune cookie and, no lie, this is today's fortune;

"Your life will be prosperous if you use your creativity."


Back to the salt mines....

Monday, January 12, 2015

Sentimental Horsetwaddle.

With a decided danger of sounding like Garfield, the cartoon cat, Mondays, ugh. Am I right? Normally, I don't raise too much of a kick about them, as my workweek is a bit skewed and Monday, to me, is actually my second day off. Tuesdays, though....

Today, however, is rough. I am exhausted. Let me give you a little tip; if you happen to stumble upon a cache of home movies at 11:00 at night on a Sunday, do NOT, for the love of God, put one in the computer. Not even if they aren't labeled terribly clearly and you just want "a quick peek", you know, for organizational purposes. They will inevitably be of your children at a wee, heart-squeezing age and you will be compelled to watch them all until you are weeping into the hem of your bathrobe and bleating "Sunrise, sunset" into the darkness. You will toss in your bed, filled with a determination to clutch them to your maternal bosom at first light, showering them with kisses and assurances that they are the most precious, special lights on the whole planet, before falling into a fitful sleep....

....only to wake the next morning to their abrupt demands for a clean sweatshirt! A check for the field trip! and criticisms of the hot breakfast you have uncharacteristically provided. Before long you will dash to your bedroom, lean your back against the door and wonder aloud how long, exactly, until these monsters leave for school?!!

This is the most perplexing and exhausting mystery of my adult life. Nothing else requires as much energy as navigating this pull toward and away from the joy and demands of parenthood. The children on those videos? Oh, my heart! They are perfect. I sincerely hope heaven is just one, big squishy couch where we can flop, piggy pile style and watch Bear in the Big Blue House and The Muppet Show for all eternity. I can not imagine anything better. The longing for those past days makes me a tad weepy, I will not lie. So why, then, do I forget, seemingly every blessed moment, that these children, the ones RIGHT HERE, are the very same people? Still as precious. Still shining as bright. Still filled with all the potential and love that I remember beaming out of their faces when they were oh, so little?

Of course, I didn't know it then, either, did I? Or, I did, but I would forget, same as now. How many grocery store temper tantrums, sleepless nights, and defiant battle-of-wills did it take in any given day to inoculate me against their charms? What a dope I am. Boy, are we lucky to have each other, no matter how many clean sweatshirts I have to schlep down to the laundry room to get. In cases like this, I always think of a time a few years back. We were in Ethiopia, riding through the countryside and my oldest son turned to me and said;

"Mom. I'm doing it all wrong. We're just sitting here and I should be like this; AAAAAAAH! (flails arms overhead) AFRICA! AAAAAAAAH! (flails) AFRICA!!!!!"

No, kid. I'M doing it all wrong. Every damn day I should be "AAAAAH! My freaking fabulous, fortunate life!!!!!" But for whatever reason, we humans don't seem to be wired that way. Probably there is a good reason. If we allowed ourselves to be overcome with the tender fragility and miraculousness of our lives we probably couldn't get on much with our days. Undoubtedly bills would not get paid. Very possibly commerce would grind to a halt. There is a chance our hearts would flat-out explode. I guess the best we can hope for are these periodic moments of lucidness, when we are filled both with an overpowering love and a profound sense of loss, reminding us, just for a second, that amidst the toast crumbs and lost mittens and bank statements, something fairly wonderful is going on.


Monday, December 15, 2014

All Work and No Running Makes Lanie a Crabby Girl.

I have been having a terrible time running for the past month. For the first time ever, I am dealing with a real injury and it is not going well.

At first I thought I had an annoying and reoccurring cramp in my calf. I couldn't get past a mile without having to turn and limp home. Which didn't stop me from attempting to get on with the running, already! Every couple of days I'd head out, make it as far as the parkway and be forced to turn back, swearing mightily the whole time. This went on long enough to become embarrassing, as I proved myself to be more than a little slow on the uptake. When I'm feeling generous, I remind myself that I had no previous experience ever with a sports injury. I spent my entire young life attempting to get OUT of physical activity, thank you very much. And besides, I was employing my entire knowledge of rehabilitation, which was limited to the phrase I'd heard so often in the movies-- "Walk it off."

Oddly, this didn't seem to help at all.

"But I'm being so good," I argued, "so reasonable. So conscientious."

What I meant was that I had swapped my high impact running for stair climbing and lower body strength training and extensive stretching. Eventually, a friend who has a long history of athletics clued me in that I didn't have a cramp, I probably had a torn calf muscle.

Hey! Guess what is terrible for a torn calf muscle!  Stair climbing and lower body strength training and extensive stretching, of course.

The whole thing is making me so darn crabby. Hubby thinks I should just simmer down. To him this is just a natural and inevitable occurrence. Between you and me, if he tells me one more time that this is normal for "people our age" I am going to smack him with my running shoe.

"I am not bound by everybody else's poor genetics!" I holler back, aware as I say it that it sounds ludicrously naive, but aware too, that on a deep level I believe it. I still feel largely invincible, as if I am going to sail through the second half of my life with exactly the same vigor and enthusiasm and glowing good health as the first. There is a chance that, with this attitude, the next several decades are going to be a string of disappointments, but for now I refuse to accept it.

And its all starting with this stupid calf muscle. Grrrr. Apparently I can use the elliptical and the rowing machine. Which is just ducky. For fun, guess the two machines at the gym that I pretty much hate. Yup. The elliptical and the rowing machine. I also hate upper body weight training which I am, of course, free to do.

Underscoring the whole experience is the fact that Kirk and I are supposed to run a 10k on New Year's Day. The way it looks now, I won't be running much at all until then. I can only imagine that it's going to go brilliantly, but someone better alert those Alpine rescue St. Bernards, just in case. You know, the ones with those wooden kegs of brandy around their necks?  Tell them to make mine a double. I'm going to need it.

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Tony Bennett Saves the Day!

Okay, I confess. I was just listening to Christmas carols in the car. I know. I KNOW, okay? It's too early. But you see, I am coming off of this hormonally induced and barely repressed 48 hours of rage. The kind where, from the outside, I look pretty much normal, but inside I am all bubbling anger, just waiting for someone to pop that champagne cork of doom. And when they do....? Imagine a soda can in a paint mixer-- Ka-BOOM! A veritable geyser of obscenities and spittle.

So I am sitting in my car, minding my own business, which mostly involves taking deep, supposedly calming breaths and repeating an appropriate mantra ("homicide leads to prison....homicide leads to prison...") while waiting in line at the car wash. Twenty five minutes later ("homicide leads to prison...") the door finally rises. Hurrah! My turn at last! Except the woman ahead of me is one of those who parks themselves under the air dryer, hoping to extract every last droplet of water from the surface of their vehicle.

Folks. I appreciate that this maybe has some merit in the dead of winter-- you don't want to take the chance of your door or keyhole freezing shut. (Plenty of pieholes I'd like to see frozen shut, though. Sorry. I'm still so very crabby.) but it was 44 degrees. Pardon me for saying so, but come the fuck on! Just move the crappy Corolla already. I swear to god, if I had a smaller deductible on my car insurance, I would just plow through the car wash at forty miles an hour and push them out, Mad Max style.


Anyhoo, when I gave an exasperated yell and smacked my head in frustration against the steering wheel, I managed to change channels on my radio. So it wasn't like I went looking for Christmas music. Tony Bennett randomly started crooning "Silver Bells" from the stereo and I just.... left it.

I react to Christmas carols much like Pavlov's dogs responded to bells. Deep, deep in the core of my brain, the opening strains of "The Twelve Days of Christmas" mean something good is going to happen. (Especially if it's the Muppets doing the singing.) I have forty-five years of associating "Feliz Navidad" with good food, yummy smells, fun times with family and presents. Not much can interfere with that wiring. I've been working on those neuro-pathways since I was a baby. Forget deep breathing, four bars of "Oh Holy Night" and I can feel the stress leaking out my toes.

How nice to find out that this is true, even when life hands you some significant changes. We're missing some much loved family members this year, and I wasn't sure I was going to be able to dig up much holiday spirit. But that was before Tony Bennett tapped into the well of conditioned responses in my brain. If we're lucky, life is long and we have so many, many memories to draw upon. We never celebrate just one Christmas. We are marking and remembering and living the expression of all of them--The one when Grandma and Grandpa gave me a pair of pearl earrings. All the years Mom let us eat the entire, foot-long Santa Claus cookie after dinner and I was so full I had to lie on the floor to finish it. The first year with a baby. The year Kirk and his dad set the turkey on fire. The first year without Grandpa. Without Grandma.

Every year adds another memory to the day, another ornament to the tree. This is the first year Miss Teen Wonder must travel home for the holidays, as a college student and arguably an adult. Her siblings will follow, one after the other. With any luck, someday there will be grandbabies. (Do you hear me, children? LOTS of grandbabies.) Each holiday will be different than the last, with a rotating cast of loves gained and lost, different circumstances, different trees....

And I will celebrate them all. Because even though I am with my almost-grown children this year, they magically remain every age they ever were. They are still the same footie-pajama wearing children, struggling against sleep, straining to hear footsteps on the roof. And more miraculously, so am I...Even if I seem to be nothing more remarkable than a middle-aged woman singing along to the radio in a car wash.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Happy Anniversary from a Lucky Lady.

As of today, I have been married 19 years. It seems like a deal. Especially if you add the word "happily" in there, which is after all, the goal, right? "I have been happily married for 19 years." Wow.

I have never once, in all honestly, regretted it. No buyer's remorse. That's  amaaaaazing.  I've regretted every decision I've ever made. I regret spending money on shoes and sweaters that I never wear. I regret bringing home the one cat that was impervious to all attempts at litter box training. I regret not taking shop class in high school, despite my dad's vehement attempts to make me, because, oh my god, the money I could have saved on this slangy shanty of a house. I don't even want to talk about the white carpeting.

But marrying Kirk....? Best decision ever.

I hope he feels same, though there is daily evidence that he could have, in fact, done better. I've grown crankier and ever chubbier with the years, which he interprets as "funnier" and "more voluptuous." A more responsible spouse would have him checked for dementia, but I know when I've got it good.

It's lucky for me that he is so attracted to my inner beauty, because, let's face it, the outer beauty is fading fast. Which I am fine with...mostly. I staunchly hold the belief that women are allowed to get old, goddammit. If you have any sort of problem with grey hair, saggy bellies or crows feet, just keep it to yourself or I will be forced to lecture you mightily on the inherent value of women while shaking my fist in the air.

Metaphorically, I mean. I gave up raising my arms above my head on my last birthday. Crows feet are one thing, but my "angel wings" (as we call the general underarm area) aren't anything I feel like inflicting upon the unsuspecting. I will not even wave hello anymore. If I see you across a crowded room, you are getting a jaunty sailor salute or maybe two thumbs up, elbows held firmly at my side. Which is just the kind of thing Kirk doesn't worry about at all, thank God.

So here's to the next 19. If I am extraordinarily lucky, we will be just as contented then, as we are now. And if we are, I'm throwing one heck of a party. You're all invited-- just stop by and say, "Hello."

SAY it to my face, I mean. Because it's my party and I won't be waving back to anyone.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Luckily, I have a PhD in Awesome.

Because I am officially having a mid-life crisis I went on-line to print out a copy of my college transcripts in an attempt to cobble some sort of workable degree out of that mess. Given the terrible and unrelenting march of time, I was unable to access them easily and had to call University Tech Support for backup.

"Well, let's just see what the problem is," said a nice man on the other side of the phone who, thankfully did not sound twelve-years-old, or whatever age college students are nowadays, "What was your computer password when you were a student?"

I snorted into the phone, quickly recovered and informed him that when I went to college I, in fact, brought along an electric typewriter password? Not so much.

Thankfully, we got it all smoothed out and with my new password was able to print off page after page of my collegiate history.

"Holy smokes," Hubby said disbelievingly, "I always assumed that you were joking when you talked about how many credits you had!"

Here's the thing, I was in college on and off for eight years. I was excellent at college. Excellent. What I was terrible at was graduating.

"You took Chorus for three terms?  Technical Theater? Ballroom dance?! PIANO?!"

"They were electives!" I huffed, defending myself.

"Should we count up your electives?"

I put my head on the table. "No."

So, electives I got. What I don't have is any math or science. Utilizing my blinding charm, I managed to bluff my way into upper-level Women's Studies and Lit classes (which are NOT required for graduation) despite having never taken the pre-requisites (which totally are.) I took enough art classes to fulfill the requirements for a Studio Arts degree and then withdrew from my senior project THREE TIMES. Out of a total of 200+ credits, I managed a two year Sign Language Interpreting degree and I don't even DO that, anymore.

I paid those student loans off for YEARS. I think we finally got rid of them when we refinanced the house, so in reality, I'm still paying them off...dumb....dumb...dumb....

My only solace is that this is not a mistake Miss Teen Wonder will be able to make. If you tried to do some bone-headed move like that now, you would never get away with it. Right around your third year, when you logged into the registration website and chose Glass-blowing, The History of Cinema and Personalities in Pop Culture (all classes I would have taken, if given the chance) alarms would go off, metal security doors would automatically lock and you would NOT be allowed to leave the room until you signed up for your upper level Statistics and Science with a Lab.

I am so depressed.

I was hoping that I had three, maybe four classes left to fill in the gaps and I could skip out, degree in hand. Now it's looking like I'd have two or more solid years of full time classes to take-- the terrible, boring classes I always avoided. Karma is just kicking my butt, here.

On the upside, my electives are finished.

Hubby doesn't think I should do this, anyways. He thinks I should just "be" a writer. You know, like you do. (Waves hand breezily.)

He is completely ignoring the fact that I already have an ideal system in place for my writing: I write things, read them to Hubby and then toss them into a pile at the side of my bed. Perfect. Maybe I'll be that like that woman who, after she died, they found thousands of brilliant photographs in her apartment. Or, more likely, my kids will just scoop the papers up and drop them, unread, into a dumpster.

Sounds perfectly fine to me. Frankly, it's much easier to face rejection when you're deceased. And even better, you NEVER have to take Intro to Biology...with or without a lab.